Revelations
by WingedWhale
Summary: An unexpected event forces Sherlock to reveal to John that he is in fact gay. How will the good doctor take the news? JOHNLOCK extended PWP with character development and dialogue.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes was a self-confident man in the extreme. He had _never _once in his thirty-seven years of life ever made a decision that wasn't purely in his own best interest. His mind could map all of the repercussions of every physical and mental action he took in a span of seconds. Thus, he very, very rarely ever made a mistake. And when he did err, it was never something he couldn't easily compensate for and correct.

Until now. They said hindsight was twenty-twenty.

_Bollocks. Hindsight is a kick in the arse._

It had all been a terrible idea. A hellish, idiotic, insanely irrational and _very_ terrible idea. He _never_ should have asked John Watson to go in on a flatshare. Looking back on that fateful day, he wondered if some spare cocaine particles from his drug days hadn't somehow floated into his tea that morning. That was the only explanation he could currently think of that made sense. Because quite obviously _something_ had gone wrong with his trusty bio-computer when he'd met the good army doctor.

Perhaps he'd followed a life of self-imposed celibacy for so long that he'd quite forgotten that at the end of the day and all the layers of intellect were stripped away as he lay in that semi-conscious state between wakefulness and sleep that he was only human. For years, adhering to a life without sexual contact was much like following a diet. The longer one went without indulging in that chocolate meringue at lunch the less one craved to have the taste of chocolate meringue on one's tongue.

Today it had been eight years, nine months and thirteen days since he'd last had a bed partner. He'd been living and working with John Watson for months now and God help him but day by day his fortitude was weakening. He remembered every verbal interaction verbatim including every damned misunderstanding strangers always seemed to have about his and Watson's relationship. He remembered the time in the little cantina whilst working their first case. John had asked if he'd had a girlfriend and he'd quickly replied saying that that really wasn't his area. The good doctor had then gone on to ask if he might have had a boyfriend and his response had been to tell him that he was married to his work and that while he was flattered by the interest, (he was still surprised that somehow his brain had gotten his vocal cords and lips to say those words) he really wasn't looking for a relationship. The subtle context of his statement that night about his relationships with men had been quite different from the quick dismissal he'd made about his relationships with women.

He liked to play himself off as being asexual. And indeed, with women, the illusion was easy. The veil of asexuality he wore enabled him to better streamline his thoughts without the hindrance of having to constantly feed the baser physical desires of the human condition. Feeding those desires slowed him down and filled his mind with meaningless thoughts and memories of lust and passion. He'd convinced himself he could transcend those carnal instincts and improve his mind by simply swearing off sex. And indeed he'd become celibate for many the same reasons he'd quit using cocaine and smoking cigarettes. To free himself from the confines of the addiction. For he'd had quite the reputation in London's most exclusive gay clubs for being a rather insatiable lover. In his unique line of work, the voracity of his libido was a beast best kept locked inside a deep and buried cage.

Sherlock sighed miserably, rubbing his palm across his face. His life had been absolutely bloody _perfect_ until the night watching for the cab in that dive of a cantina.

Last night he'd dreamt of John and awoken for the first time in over eight and a half years with a very insistent erection. Contrary to what others might have thought, he actually wasn't made of stone. Wanking off in a cold shower had most certainly _not_ been an ideal start to his day. Thank God Watson was nowhere to be found when Sherlock plopped down in front of his microscope. There was a note on top of the teapot saying he'd gone at Mrs. Hudson's request to fetch a halogen bulb for the ceiling light in front of the stairs.

It was eleven o'clock. Presumably John would return at any minute. Maybe all of the hardware shops in London would be out of the special halogen bulb needed for Mrs. Hudson's light fixture and John would have to hire a car and drive to Doncaster instead. One could only hope.

Sherlock ran through the options he currently had. He could say and do absolutely nothing and hope he could force himself to ignore his current problem. He could tell John the truth. Or he could take on the role of cold-hearted bastard and break off all association with the man. The logical self-serving part of himself prompted him to choose the latter option, but the irrational still human side balked at the idea.

"Damned if I do, damned if I don't," Sherlock muttered sotto voce. Seconds later he heard John Watson's footsteps on the stairs, followed by the appearance of the man himself into the room. The blond soldier wore a blue and green plaid button down along with a favorite pair of faded black jeans.

"Morning, Sherlock," he said pleasantly. "I bought some eggs and a rasher of bacon while I was out."

"You found Mrs. Hudson's halogen light-bulb I take it," Sherlock said.

"They even carried them at Tesco so all I had to do was make one stop."

"Ah," Sherlock responded neutrally, making a show of scrutinizing the microscope.

"Is everything all right with you?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't immediately respond. He flicked his gaze to John's and then returned his eyes to where his fingers were fiddling with the microscope.

_Oh_ yes, _everything is just dandy, John. I may have had a dream last night that prominently featured you quite violently shagging me over that chair there you're now leaning against, but no matter, everything is just fine and fucking dandy._

"Sherlock?" John queried again, this time a tinge of concern creeping into his voice.

"What?" Sherlock asked, pretending he hadn't heard John's earlier question.

John moved around the room to stand closer to Sherlock. It was all Sherlock could do to prevent himself from outwardly showing his discomfort. The doctor was less than three feet from Sherlock's chair.

"For God's sake, just spill it, Sherlock. I know that look. It's your there's something interesting on your mind look."

Sherlock couldn't help but twitch at the doctor's choice of words. "It's nothing. _Really_."

John snorted indelicately. "I don't believe you. Come on, let's hear it."

Sherlock shoved the microscope further up on the desk and folded his forearms in front of him. "John," he began. "It's personal."

"What did you suddenly hear from some old flame?" John asked, arching a brow.

"No. But in an oddly roundabout way of thinking it does fit that theme."

"I don't follow."

Sherlock laid his head on his arms. "I had a dream about you, John." His voice was partially muffled by the fact that his forehead was pressed into the fabric of his sleeves.

Silence. So he _had_ heard. _Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one._

"_OH _. . . _oh God."_

Sherlock's only reply was to huff into his sleeve.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was aware of the sound of John dropping down to sit in the chair. If he only knew how that piece of furniture factored into the imagery of the dream, Sherlock mused he'd be sitting as far away from it as he could get. Perhaps only after chucking the entire thing out the window first for good measure.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. Perhaps now was the time to get himself castrated and have done with it. For the first time in perhaps his entire life, he was at a total loss for words. So was that it then, were the two of them just going to sit there ignoring each other for the rest of the day?

Disconcertingly, Sherlock felt a prickling desire for something much stronger than a cigarette. His stomach plummeted at the beginning feelings of the old and familiar craving. If left down to castration or cocaine perhaps castration really was a viable option here. Finally John spoke again.

"Look, we _all_ have dreams, right? And we certainly can't control them"—

Sherlock snorted indignantly, only just refraining from pointing out that actually the ability to control one's dreams was something that anyone could learn and that lucid dreaming really wouldn't help at all at this point. For someone possessing a photographic memory, it wasn't as if he would ever forget any of the details that had lodged themselves indelibly in his mind.

"and dreams are such random things, aren't they? Maybe your subconscious brain already got it out of its system and you won't even have to worry about having another one like it."

_Oh John, how little you know me._ Sherlock managed to make a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of Sherlock. Sex is a rather natural part of life, well, at least in most people's lives. And why, if you've never had, err, a relationship before, it's hardly surprising that your subconscious would fixate upon a friend."

Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose, at the phrase of words John was using to imply that he thought he might very well be a virgin. The man needed to know the truth.

"How many women have you had sex with, John?"

"Wha-what?"

"Please, answer the question." Sherlock said popping his head up again.

"Um, . . . six? Wait no, . . . seven. Definitely seven. Why do u ask?"

"I've had sex with exactly one hundred and twenty-two different men."

Ah, there was that silence again. It was quickly becoming almost excruciating.

"One hundred and twenty-two, wow, that's quite a number," John said finally. "Well that rather succinctly puts the virgin theory to rest, doesn't it then? For your sake I hope you used protection."

"I was careful enough, John."

"You're not going to tell me next that you used to be some kind of a gay porn star, are you?"

Sherlock chose to be wisely silent. Maybe he'd go for both the castration and the cocaine. It was quickly becoming the most appealing choice.

"Sherlock, you _weren't! . . . Were you?_"

"I never purported to be a paradigm of virtue."

"Look, I'm sorry. I'm really not trying to judge you or anything."

"But clearly your mind is doing just that, whether you want it to or not."

John sighed. "I don't give a rat's arse about your past, Sherlock. I like and respect you for the person you are now, today, at this very second. We all have our skeletons or demons in the closet . . . I just . . . I never . . . well, it's a bit of a shock."

Sherlock didn't immediately respond. When he did his voice was uncharacteristically soft. "I wanted so badly to leave my past behind me. I was arrogant enough to believe that I could do precisely that through sheer force of will alone. I thought I could put a tombstone over that era of my life and walk away without ever giving it another consideration. Evidently I was wrong."

"Despite what you'd have the world believe, you're only human Sherlock." John said just as quietly, looking at him with no small trace of concern.

"Am I?" Sherlock countered. "Am I really? I went from a cocaine addicted _gay_ porn star to a completely celibate adjunct detective who doesn't even smoke cigarettes. I quit the sex and the drugs together about eight and a half years ago. Yet for a man who wished nothing more than to divorce himself from his past, I kept the horse whip I frequently used . . . and still have it even now in the bedroom closet. Four and a half years ago I had a drug relapse but aside from the kiss I had with Lestrade during the withdrawals that followed I never so much as felt even the smallest desire to engage in any sexual activity until this morning."

"You _kissed_ Lestrade?"

"Technically, John, _he_ kissed _me_,"

"Closet homosexual or bisexual?"

"John, . . . every human on this earth is bisexual . . . given the right set of circumstances."

"Oh, come on!"

"Psychologists may debate it until the sun explodes but that doesn't make it any less true all the same."

John cleared his throat, a nervous action that told Sherlock that the army doctor wasn't exactly comfortable with his proclamation. He watched as John shifted in his seat. "So does Lestrade know?" he asked, changing the subject.

"I swore him to secrecy on pain of death," Sherlock told him.

"Right, of course you did."

"It came up during my relapse, for rather obvious reasons."

"I did ask him once when we first met that he must have known you well after having worked with you for five years and he flatly told me that no, he didn't."

"He lied. He's rather good at it when he wants to be."

"Does your brother know?"

"I have no idea and I shall go to my grave without ever asking him."

"You do drink alcohol, don't you Sherlock? Or is it one of your triggers?"

_You're one of my triggers now, John, and I'm not exactly being quick to pour you down the sink, now am I?_

_ "_I was never what you'd call an alcoholic, but no I don't drink. However, there's a bottle of unopened Belvedere under the sink."

John was up and walking to the kitchen as soon as the words had left Sherlock's mouth.

"It would appear we're out of ice," John called from the other room. Sherlock heard the army doctor heave a beleaguered sigh before rummaging around to pull out the bottle of vodka. There was the sound of the kettle being lifted from the stove and the sound of pouring tea. This was followed by the sound of a cracking seal on the liquor and then finally the plunk of vodka being dashed into a cup.

"This will do," John said as he shuffled back into the sitting room.

"You don't happen to have any cigarettes, do you?" Sherlock asked.

"No. I thought you kept an emergency cache hidden away,"

"I did. They're all gone. Used them as currency for the homeless." Sherlock stood up and made for the door. "I'll pick you up some ice while I'm out. Is there anything else you want?"

"I was just at Tesco, Sherlock."

"Oh. Right." Sherlock said unintelligently as he threw on his coat. "See you in a bit then."

John waved a farewell. Sherlock was aware that John was watching him and could see him all but bolt down the stairs. He all but ran into Mrs. Hudson in the downstairs hall.

"Sherlock, dear, watch where you're going. My reflexes aren't as sharp as they used to be."

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson,"

"You should be more careful!" she called after him as he exited the building.

Sherlock stood contemplating his next move as he waited for a taxi. He had a very threatening urge to tell the driver to drop him off in Trafalgar Square where he'd be only a moment's walk from one of the most notable gay clubs in London. But no, there'd be time enough for that later. Besides, things would be much more interesting in the later hours of the evening.

For now, he had a certain detective inspector to visit. Perhaps the older man would be able to offer him some sage advice. Because for all his intellect Sherlock was utterly at a loss on how to carry on from here. And he wasn't so prideful as to think he could do it alone without incurring or inflicting injuries along the way.

In matters concerning the details of his past, he was smart enough to recognize he needed help.

**A/N: Lol, don't hurt me! Formerpornstar!Sherlock has been a plot bunny that has wanted to make its nest on my computer for a very long time.**


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock walked into Lestrade's office without so much as a cursory knock. Lestrade wheeled round in his chair at the sound of the door opening. His eyebrows shot up slightly as Sherlock shut the door behind him and strode to his desk.

"I'm afraid it's a slow day, Sherlock. You know I'll ring your mobile if something turns up."

"I'm not here because of casework," Sherlock said silkily.

Lestrade's eyebrows shot up to maximum height. He stared at Sherlock for several seconds. Sherlock leaned forward, bracing his hands on Lestrade's desk.

"It's awake. It's awake and John knows _everything_."

"It's awake?" Lestrade asked, his expression revealing he had more than a slight idea of what Sherlock was intimating but that he wanted to be sure. Sherlock sighed.

"Yes. _It_. My libido, my sex drive, my desire to _fuck and be fucked._"

"Good God. Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

"_It's not funny, Detective Inspector,"_ Sherlock snarled.

Lestrade pushed his chair back, unwilling to let Sherlock into his personal space whilst in such a state. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the action. Lestrade leaned back, folding his arms behind his head as he did so.

"Sorry," Lestrade said sincerely.

Sherlock snorted. Whether it was his acceptance to the apology or just voicing his indignation anyone could say.

"There's nothing going on here. I could use a lunch break. You can tell me about your troubles over a platter of fish and chips."

Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement walking back to the door. Lestrade sighed and followed him out of the corner office. Sherlock strode down the hallway ahead of him.

Donovan happened to glance up from her desk as Sherlock strode past. Lestrade gave her a stern look of warning, hoping she'd keep her mouth shut for once in her miserable life. She quelled a little under the gaze of her boss and quickly returned to her paperwork. Thank God. Lestrade didn't have to think what Sherlock's response would have been had she antagonized him.

Less than ten minutes later he and Sherlock were seated at a popular café near the Yard. After putting their orders in with the waitress Lestrade turned his attention to Sherlock.

"How did John take the news?"

"He went and poured Belvedere into his tea."

"Okay, well that's not as bad a reaction as what could have been."

Sherlock made yet another ambiguous noise.

"There's only two ways he could have found out. Which one was it?"

"I told him."

Lestrade tilted his head to the side in a parody of Sherlock's trademark gesture. "You told him," he repeated. "Want to elaborate on that?"

"Not particularly," Sherlock said and sighed in defeat. "But I will." He took a steadying sip of water. "Woke up with a hard on after having a particularly interesting dream last night. I had no choice but to tell him the truth when he saw how strangely I was acting."

Lestrade shook his head as if to clear it.

"So now your celibacy is about to go up in flames."

"Something like that, yes. But the worst part is that I can barely think at all right now."

"What about your mind castle?"

"Palace, _Gregory_. _Mind Palace_. And right now it's more of a mind sex dungeon."

Lestrade couldn't help but crack a smile. He tried to hide it as he took a drink of his own water and failed. Their food came and Sherlock barely took one bite for every four of Lestrade's. When Sherlock remained quiet for nearly five minutes straight, Lestrade grew serious.

"Drug cravings?" he asked.

"Like you wouldn't believe," Sherlock replied.

"I'm not going through that shit again with you Sherlock. I can put you in touch with a good addiction therapist."

"Not necessary," Sherlock said flatly.

"Fucking hell, Sherlock, we wouldn't be here now if you weren't already considering seeking help. Or else you're planning to snort a line of cocaine at the very earliest opportunity!"

Sherlock poked despondently at his shepherd's pie. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Ask anything you like," Lestrade replied, biting a piece of his fish.

"What's the longest length of time you've gone without having sex?"

Lestrade sighed heavily. "Thirteen months."

"Multiply that by eight and consider how you'd feel."

"No one told you to abstain for the rest of your life. You see now how that was an unrealistic expectation?"

"In full color resounding detail, yes. However I fear I may begin to resent John for it, despite all rational effort towards the contrary."

"It's not as if _he_ can help that _you're_ attracted to him!" Lestrade exclaimed.

"It's an addiction, too, you know," said Sherlock quietly.

"What? John?"

Sherlock snorted. "No. Maybe. I don't know, but I was referring to the act itself in general. If I go and torch my celibacy, I'm all but certain I'll miss all the rest of it."

"Doing it on camera, you mean?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in obvious annoyance.

"Among other things."

"I do realize you're the most brilliant person I know, but at the risk of stating the obvious let me remind you that whatever, or rather _whomever_ you do, take care to avoid turning into a walking and talking encyclopedia of STD's."

Sherlock gave him a deadpan stare. "Duly noted. However, if I managed to work in the porn industry for six years without contracting anything more than the common cold, I'm sure I'll manage now." He took another drink of water, his eyes never leaving those of the Detective Inspector. He didn't speak for several seconds, yet remained relentless in his gaze.

"Oh, no." Lestrade said firmly, holding his hands up to ward off Sherlock's sudden change in thought pattern. "No, don't even go there."

"Seeing someone?"

Lestrade returned Sherlock's deadpan gaze. "Not seriously, no. In fact, right now, it's just sex."

"Man or woman? Say man and I might just murder you in my mind."

Lestrade swallowed, and Sherlock watched as the detective inspector's Adam's apple worked up and down. "Guess you'll have to murder me then."

Sherlock made a sound from deep inside his chest that sounded suspiciously like a growl. "_I'm better you know._"

"I won't pretend to tell you it's not a tempting offer, but trust me, you wouldn't much like the consequences."

"Consequences?" Sherlock echoed.

"If we were to have sex, you would never _ever _work a case with the Yard again."

"Unless the Mind Palace returns, I may not remain your consulting detective for very much longer. After all, I can hardly be in top form with my deductive reasoning if all I can think about is participating in homosexual pornography."

"Not tonight, Sherlock," Lestrade told him. "Go find yourself a nice corporate attorney like I did."

"I played an attorney a time or two," Sherlock said with a sly grin.

"Shut up, Sherlock!" Lestrade admonished. "Shut up, now! Or else I'll make good on my earlier threat even without the sex."

The waitress walked by and dropped off their checks just as Lestrade finished his sentence. She smiled at them as she moved away.

"Any notions of what I should say to John when I see him?"

"I've never fancied a straight man, so no, I don't think I can really offer any advice there."

"Perhaps I can just get him to shoot me and put me out of my misery," Sherlock murmured mostly to himself.

Lestrade stared at him. "I almost feel as if I'm in some sort of bizarre dream. My brain can't seem to reconcile you becoming some sort of randy male nymphomaniac."

"Which is precisely why I made the decision to go for lifelong celibacy in the first place!"

Lestrade sighed, trying to keep the natural note of sympathy out of the sound. "Are you quite certain he's one hundred percent unwaveringly straight?"

Sherlock's nostril's flared at the question. "It's not as if I'm going to come on to him and find out!"

"Why not?" Lestrade asked in a perfectly reasonable tone.

Sherlock snorted in irritation for what seemed to Lestrade like the thousandth time. "Because," Sherlock stated simply, "For as utterly and completely fucked up as I am, I am no where near to being _that_ far gone."

"Then your plan is to what, go home with some random man you meet at a club?"

"Or else I'll take two or three of them to a hotel."

Lestrade blinked. "You're having me on." He continued staring into the shimmering depths of Sherlock's eyes. "Oh, . . . you're _serious_. What the hell kind of sex drive do you have?"

Sherlock huffed. "Then again, maybe I'll work up the courage to try chemical castration."

Now it was Lestrade's turn to let out a cheeky snort. "Things can't ever be simple with you, can they?"

Sherlock glowered at him. "Shouldn't you be getting back about now?"

"Indeed, I suppose I should. Text you that therapist's number, yeah?"

Sherlock waved him off. After the detective inspector left the restaurant, Sherlock remained, delicately nibbling at what remained of his meal for several minutes. He idly rolled a knot out of his neck and drained the rest of his water.

_Eight years, nine months, and thirteen days_. He'd given life without sex a valiant effort. By far, he'd last longer than anyone could have expected. Especially for an ex-porn star.

And now he stood at the edge of the precipice, about to dash it all against the rocks. So much for the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes. At least it had been fun while it lasted.

He'd been denying his past for so many years. And he'd done a remarkably good job on anyone's watch at reinventing his persona. For the first time in over eight and a half years he thought about what his fellow adult film stars would have said about his years of forced asexuality. Undoubtedly none of them would believe it.

He wondered how long it would take for someone to recognize him when he returned to the clubs. He blew out a weary and frustrated sigh. Leaving some change on the table for the waitress, Sherlock stood up and put on his Belstaff.

As he exited the restaurant and walked down the street, his mind going over everything Lestrade had said. "_Are you quite certain he's one hundred percent unwaveringly straight?" _Why the very thought that John Watson might be receptive to a liaison was preposterous. He'd know the man for well over a year and whenever strangers' made the mistake of assuming he and John were a couple, the army doctor was so quick to object to the very thought.

Sherlock remembered _everything._ And suddenly he was brought back to the time when John had taken that lady doctor to the yellow dragon mafia circus. Sherlock had playfully baited John after the doctor had told him about the date, telling him that he had the same suggestion for the two of them, an evening of enjoying each other's company and having fun. John had _very _quickly replied that that wasn't what he had in mind and hoped that surely that wasn't what his friend the consulting detective had had in mind either.

Sherlock thought back to Irene Adler, and how he had secretly feared that John would learn the truth of his sexuality in her presence. In all honesty, he was more than a little surprised that the woman had been unable to read the opposing kindred spirit of his psyche. She had called him a virgin and indeed in regards to women she was right. Perhaps she really had been baiting him to reveal his true nature. He sighed as he hailed a cab and rode to the nearest Tesco.

He'd almost told her . . . after all of Irene's ridiculously obvious flirting . . . that he'd more than gladly take her up on her offer of sexual favors if only she'd been born with a penis. Surely, the woman had to have known. He never would have gone so far out of his way to save her life if he hadn't felt the deep connection of meeting another person with such a remarkable intellect and rapacious sexual appetite. And for a dreadful moment he'd been very afraid that she would pick up on his past and reveal as much to John.

Sherlock shuddered, pulling his coat closer to his round his neck. In another minute the taxi pulled up to his destination and he exited, walking through the automatic sliding doors of the market. Though he'd never admit it to anyone, he occasionally wished he could trade places with his elder brother. Playing Britain's most powerful spymaster was currently preferable to the torture he was now experiencing. Sometimes Mycroft had it so easy. Sherlock very much doubted that his big brother even realized how lucky he was.

To live in shadowed anonymity, doing whatever he pleased when he wasn't working, his brother possessed a sort of ephemeral freedom that Sherlock sometimes envied. Sherlock grabbed a plastic hand basket, and moved to the pharmaceutical section of the store. There was a painful twist in the pit of his stomach as he entered an aisle he hadn't visited in over eight and a half years. His brain switched to autopilot as he traversed the shelves, the product brands and item names very familiar to the long suppressed memory banks that he now easily recalled as if he'd been here only yesterday.

He nearly let loose a smirk at the ridiculous irony of it all. While he may have once forgotten that the earth travelled around the sun, he certainly hadn't purposely gone and deleted the primary school information from his memory. However as much as he tried to forget the details of his past over the years, he still remembered the brand and type of his favorite condoms and personal lubricant.

He made his selections from the shelves, sealing his fate as the items dropped into the plastic basket slung over his left arm. If only Tesco had sold drug paraphernalia perhaps he could have gotten a two for one discount on addiction accessories. Sherlock grabbed several packs of cigarettes and a bag of ice before paying for his purchases and leaving the supermarket.

Less than ten minutes later, he was entering 221B. When he reached the top of the stairs there was no sign of John.

"Your ice is here, John!" Sherlock called upstairs. No answer. He quickly realized that John was not in the flat. Carrying the ice to the freezer, he noticed a piece of paper on the counter.

Sherlock,

Took a last minute appointment with the PTSD therapist. Back soon.

-J.W.

P.S. Tried to text you, but you left your phone here in the flat.

Something squeezed the inside of Sherlock's chest. He hadn't been aware that John was experiencing any old symptoms. If that were true, why hadn't the man he called his only true friend come to him first? The sensation in his chest transformed into a faintly stinging hurt. He closed his eyes to steady and desperately attempted to ground himself.

_Maybe he's decided it's best to pick up and move on._

Sherlock stilled at the thought, feeling more than slightly ill. He truly couldn't bear the thought of John Watson walking out of his life. He truly cared for the man, even if John only wanted a brotherly friendship.

For all his intellectual brilliance, Sherlock could not begin to guess at the unspoken meaning of the message. He knew John hadn't been to see his PTSD doctor in eighteen months.

What on earth had prompted John to seek professional counsel, now? A frozen jolt went down his spine as he feared he knew what had prompted the doctor to return to psychiatric therapy. Especially on such short notice.

His confession had shocked and maybe even disgusted him. Perhaps John was sitting in the office now, seeking advice on how to end their friendship and association without being too outwardly callous.

The note didn't specify when John had gone out. Sherlock sat down woodenly in his chair, a painful chill blooming through his chest. All he could do was wait. There was nothing else that could be done that might favorably impact the situation.

And for the first time in a long time, Sherlock found that he was well and truly afraid.

**A/N: Thanks so, so, much for the favorites, follows, and reviews. I appreciate each and every one of you!**


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had chain-smoked clean through two packs of fags and the building twitchiness in every muscle fiber in his body was only increasing to the point where he felt he was going to scream. He tried to force his body to relax and was powerless to stop the rush of blood in his ears. Unbidden images flashed through his mind, dark demons rearing their ugly heads as they quickly fought to tear down the last of the ever so carefully constructed barriers Sherlock had put in place. He saw the images of his dream as clearly as if the whole thing had been an actual memory. The sounds of John forcefully rutting into him from behind assaulted his imagination along with the wanton and experienced reactions he knew his body was more than capable of making. And just as soon as he found himself halfway to a true erection he would shove the image out of his mind through sheer force of will and think about preparing a line of cocaine on the table and snorting up, filling a syringe of heroine and tying the tourniquet around his arm with practiced efficiency, of grinding narcotic painkillers into a lovely little powder and pouring them into a glass of green absinthe.

His arm tightened spasmodically on the cushions beneath him and he shuddered violently. Unsteadily, he rose to his feet and stumbled to the shower. After quickly stripping down he forced himself to stand beneath a numbingly cold stream of water. He trembled, but it hardly had anything to do with the temperature of the water. He laid a forearm on the tile and leaned his forehead against his wrist.

He closed his eyes and hunched his shoulders, wishing for it all to disappear and go away. When the first full tear fell, there was a sudden pain in his chest that penetrated the depths of his psyche. He hadn't cried since he was seven or eight years old. It was a shock that he was even capable of the act. Another tear fell, hot against the chilled skin of his cheek.

What a fool he'd been. Had he really deluded himself into thinking he could succeed in living in the normal world? That he could cage his true nature and parade around masquerading as a man who possessed what some might call a soul? No, it was all becoming clear now, he could _pretend_ all he liked . . . but he could no more live in civilized society than a wild tiger could live as a housecat. Sooner or later, someone would get hurt, even _killed_.

Sherlock let out a shaky exhalation.

He'd never told Lestrade _why _he'd been so quick to throw his life away after he'd graduated from university. He could have done anything he liked . . . he had advanced degrees in both microbiology and chemistry. He could have gotten a very high paying job at a lab and gotten himself a husband, and a house in the country with a few horses.

Mechanically, he shut the water off and wrapped a towel around his body as he stepped out of the shower. He raised his gaze to the mirror. He watched in detached disgust as tears slowly trailed down his cheeks. He squeezed his eyes shut and splashed water on his face from the faucet.

It seemed that he, Sherlock Holmes, was good for two things, sex and solving crime. He snorted at his red-eyed reflection. That wasn't strictly true. For if it was, he'd have simply been a first rate forensic specialist with a _very_ satisfied boyfriend.

No, there was something that lived within his psyche that sometimes brushed against him like the whisper of a lover that beckoned him to jump into the depths of darkness and become a master criminal like Jim Moriarty.

_That_ was the reason he'd turned to drugs and pornography. They'd been satisfying enough to keep him from acting on whatever dark desires lay buried within his mind. If his sexual appetites had been even half of what they were, there was no doubt in his mind that he would have entered the world of high crime and would now be standing in Moriarty's place.

He swallowed hard. He should have stuck to a life of hedonistic debauchery.

At least then, he'd only be harming himself. And he could make himself forget the pain that came with possessing one of the sharpest intellects the world had ever seen. He'd left that life as a sort of experiment, to see if he could make it in the real world. Sherlock had made a valiant effort at leaving his familiar world of darkness behind. Yet he found that he, like Icarus, had flown a little too close to the sun and was now plummeting to the earth. He didn't have much farther to fall.

He wiped his face and dressed. When he returned to the sitting room he could hear movement on the stairs.

_John_.His chest tightened in an unfamiliar sensation. A sudden thud punctuated the rhythm of John's footsteps.

"_Fuck,_" Sherlock heard the doctor mutter. The consulting detective blinked. Though he'd known John for nearly two years he'd not once heard the man utter that particular word. When John finally reached the top of the steps, Sherlock's stomach dropped. He could almost smell the alcohol coming off the doctor's breath from nearly three meters away. John stopped in the doorway, slight surprise showing in his eyes at having found Sherlock in the flat.

"S'all your fault, you know," John said as he stumbled into the room.

"Did you actually go see the therapist or have you been at the pub all this time?" Sherlock asked emotionlessly.

"Oh I went to see the bloody shrink all right, Sherlock. Prob'ly gave her enough info to write an entire fucking novel."

"You're angry with me." It wasn't a question.

"I'm a lot of things at you, anger's just one o' them."

"How much have you had to drink, John?"

The doctor snorted in an uncharacteristic display of insolence. He gazed at Sherlock defiantly and it was all Sherlock could do not to physically recoil.

"Apparently, not nearly enough," John said as if that meant something.

Sherlock turned his head, beginning to feel sick at the thought of asking John to elaborate but knowing he had no other choice.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" he asked.

John rolled his eyes and stepped further into the room.

"Shall I spell it out for you? Let's see, how about this? I've known you for what, almost two years? I signed on as your flat mate and somehow over the course of time learnt how to become your closest friend. Try as I might I can't seem to get any romantic relationships to stick because I'm always helping you stay out of trouble whilst capturing criminals that even the top DI at Scotland Yard can't track on his own. Not only that, but strangers seem to have taken a great liking to assuming that I'm gay when they see me with you. You know what that does to me, Sherlock?! No, you couldn't possibly because that means you'd actually have the capacity to think about other's feelings in that genius brain of yours! Let me tell you this, you aren't they only one who has dreams! Fucking Christ! I've even had a waking fantasy a time or two, but you know what? I told myself it was just a harmless Freudian crush because we've both saved each others lives over the years and have grown to know each other so well. Of course that was when I was convinced you were an honest to God asexual. That made any thoughts of the two of us together automatically ridiculous, _even laughable!_ But that reality's all gone to shit, because this morning you set me right about your sexual history. And now, my brain doesn't know what to think about you anymore because the man I _thought_ you were doesn't happen to actually exist, does he?! You were a fucking _porn star_ for Christ sakes! I've been drinking for the past three hours hoping I'd be able to get all the thoughts of you out of my head! Yet apparently I'm not nearly intoxicated enough because even now all I can think about is fucking you!"

Sherlock was numb. He wasn't sure he could speak.

"You lied by omission!" John shouted. "All it would have taken on that first night would have been, 'Actually I'm quite gay but not looking to pursue any relationships at this time.' Not whatever bullshit you spouted about being married to your work."

"Well John, you never out and out _asked_ if I was gay did you?"

John simply stared at him.

"Asking if you had a boyfriend damn well implies it, I'd say."

Sherlock sighed, forcing himself to hold the doctor's gaze. John narrowed his gaze. "Oh God, even _Moriarty _knew."

Sherlock didn't respond. He watched as John's eyes widened in realization. "That's what he meant that night by the pool, when he asked if you enjoyed him pretending to be gay. It was so subtle, I didn't really think about it until now. Hell, that's why he called you The Virgin when talking to that Adler woman. You've never done it with a woman and in his mind doing it with a man didn't actually count."

"Shall I conclude that you hate me now?" Sherlock asked.

"My brain's a little too fuzzy at the moment to think of a suitable adjective for my feelings about you, but I don't think it's hate," John said. He moved until he was just standing at the edge of Sherlock's personal space. "I just don't understand why you misled me," he said softly.

"I . . . I didn't think it mattered," Sherlock said. "John, you must understand that I haven't felt anything even remotely resembling true physical lust for over eight years. It didn't even occur to me that I might develop a desire . . ." he trailed off unable to bring himself to finish his sentence.

"A desire for what?" John prompted. The doctor reached out and laid a hand on Sherlock's arm and Sherlock couldn't help but twitch at the physical contact of John's warm strong hand against his shirt.

"_For you, John,_" Sherlock told him his voice barely audible. Sherlock trembled as John moved his hand to Sherlock's collar and gave a forceful tug, making the detective bow his head. John then met his lips with his in a hard and scorching kiss. Sherlock was at the doctor's mercy, opening his mouth as John's mouth forced his lips apart. For a man who'd never kissed another man, John was being unexpectedly brazen. Perhaps it was all because of the alcohol, but somehow the deliberate measure of his actions told Sherlock that the man had envisioned this scenario more than once before. John's kiss was quickly escalated into a near brutal assault of Sherlock's mouth. The doctor's hand that wasn't presently holding onto Sherlock's collar buried itself in Sherlock's mass of damp curls. John thrust his tongue against Sherlock's, tasting every part of Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock opened his mouth wider, welcoming the harsh assault. John drove Sherlock backwards with the weight of his body until Sherlock's back hit the wall with a resounding thump. The friction of their lips dragging against each other was soon joined with the friction of their bodies as John planted a knee between Sherlock's legs. A pleading moan of desperation escaped Sherlock's throat. John snapped his hips forward, meeting Sherlock's quickly growing erection with one of his own. John broke the kiss, and stepped back, his dark blue eyes searching Sherlock's lighter ones. Both men were flushed and panting.

"Despite what you might see as evidence to the contrary, I'm _not_ gay, Sherlock. However, I might have to create a new label for myself seeing how you aren't a woman and I'm more attracted to you than I've ever been to anyone. What do you think of the term, _Sherlocksexual_? You see, I never have been nor will I ever be attracted to a man who isn't you. It's as if I've fallen under your spell, and even now I half expect you to tell me you possess some kind of magical power."

"Oh John, you are properly pissed, aren't you? I can almost taste the whiskey on your tongue. We shouldn't be doing this."

"I'm sober enough to know what I'm doing, Sherlock." The doctor's words were ever so slightly slurred.

Sherlock forced his brain to come back online. John might not be exactly falling over himself in a drunken stupor, but he was frighteningly close to it. He had to make a decision he could live with. As Sherlock was stone cold sober, he had to be responsible for John's actions. If he let things go too far now . . . he couldn't bring himself to think about what the doctor would say or do when he finally sobered up.

"Can you walk a straight line for me, John?" Sherlock asked.

The doctor made a face. "Why on Earth would I want to do that?"

"You're legally drunk, John. I will not have you intoxicated in my bed."

John suddenly smirked. "Bed? Who said anything about a bed? The sofa or floor right here should do just fine I should think."

Sherlock mentally kicked himself. A not so small part of himself screamed that he was overreacting and should take the man at his word that he knew what he wanted. But somehow the more rational part of his brain won out. He'd hate himself forever if he took advantage of John being in such a state.

"No!" Sherlock said firmly, shaking John by the shoulders a little.

"Don't you want me, Sherlock?" the doctor asked. The timbre of the blonde man's voice was nearly his undoing. Sherlock briefly shut his eyes to compose himself. When he opened them, they were shining and full of unspoken emotion.

"More than you can possibly know, John," he said softly. "_Just not like this._"

"I s'pose I did drink more than I should have."

Sherlock nodded. "The best thing for you to do now is to go upstairs and sleep it off."'

"Not sure if stairs are the best thing for me right now. I already tripped once coming up here."

"Fine. I'll sleep upstairs, take my room. I'd say you'll feel better when you wake up, but I'm sure you'll have a nasty headache later."

Sherlock gently turned John in the direction of the downstairs bedroom and sent him on his way. Apparently he turned John a little too quickly, because the doctor grabbed at the wall and looked like he was about to retch onto the floor. Sherlock sighed. It was quite obvious he'd made the right decision.

Once John made it into the room and onto the bed, Sherlock closed the bedroom door. Then he turned his back to it and sunk down onto the floor.

He had no idea what John's mood would be like when he awoke. There was a good chance he wouldn't even remember the kiss.

And despite everything, Sherlock found himself hoping that he would.

**A/N: Well my darlings, I suppose this chapter proves I am a bit of a sadist. Don't be too upset with me though, the fic's not over yet!**


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